How Apollo Picks Founder Nik Monnin Turned a Pandemic Experiment into a Dream Job

Acoustic guitarists give painstaking attention to the warmth of mahogany versus the shimmer of rosewood, or to how an OM responds differently than a dreadnought. Yet the small piece of material that actually strikes the strings is often overlooked. For Nik Monnin, founder of Apollo Picks, the pick itself became the focus. What began as a pandemic project with his young son—making casein picks at the kitchen table—soon grew into a deep exploration of shape, bevel, and feel, as he experimented with everything from homemade casein to obscure vintage plastics.

Five years later, Apollo Picks are still made one at a time in Monnin’s Ohio workshop, hand-shaped and finished with the care of a luthier. Offered in materials ranging from classic casein to rare plastics, his picks start at $30 and are now favored by players like Norman Blake, Bill Frisell, Julian Lage, and Mary Halvorson. Meanwhile, the younger Monnin sells his own Apollo Jr. picks for 50 cents a handful—a reminder of how this family project first took root. 

I spoke with Monnin about how Apollo Picks grew, the subtleties that matter most, and why a tool as small as a guitar pick can so profoundly shape the sound and feel of an instrument.

How did you get into making guitar picks? Was it out of necessity as a player, curiosity as a artisan, or something else?

During the early days of the pandemic, when my son was about three or four, we both got into collecting picks. He thought they were cool and wanted to gather as many as possible. One day we thought, why don’t we try to make one? So we did. We even made our own casein material using vinegar and milk—it’s like making paneer cheese, where you separate it and then process it further. We stabilized it and turned it into a pick, which I still have. That first experiment was so much fun that I made a small batch and handed them out to friends. When they came back saying, “I love this—can I have more?” things just took off.

Did you realize right away that you were onto something?

Not at all. Around that time I was also buying just about every pick on the market. I’m a little obsessive about tone. I’d find one pick with a quality I liked, but then think, I wish it also had this other quality. That’s when it clicked: if I can make my own, I can try to unify all the traits I want. So I started making picks strictly for myself. After the one with my son, I probably made 20 or so where I was just chasing something missing from my collection.

What was the moment when you realized it could grow into a business?

It still feels like a personal project. But Norman Blake was the turning point. He was the first person I sent picks to, and when he came back saying, “Man, I really like these,” that floored me. Then he agreed to do a signature model. I thought, “Well, if Norman’s behind this, maybe I really do have something here.”

Where did the name Apollo come from?

I’ve always been fascinated by ancient Greece. Apollo, the god of music, is often shown with a lyre—the first instrument known to use a plectrum. There’s no record of picks before that. So the name connects my interest in history with the origins of the pick itself.

How did you decide on the shapes for your ready-made line?

Some are classics, like the teardrop or rounded mandolin pick. But others are original. Shape H, for instance, came from tweaking a couple of different shapes into one, and I don’t know of anyone else making one quite like it. It’s my favorite shape. On my site I keep a grid called Prototypes that shows the small variations I’m constantly working on. Even the standard shapes I make have slight differences from what other makers do. A tiny change—
fractions of a millimeter—can shift how a pick feels and responds.

Do you prototype new shapes often, or have you settled into a family of trusted designs?

I’m still refining. Five years in, I’m not done yet. Right now I’m working with Chris Eldridge on something that’s close to one of my standard shapes but with subtle changes. That’s how it often goes: I’ll send picks to musicians I admire, and we’ll tweak [the design] together until it feels right. The changes can be incredibly subtle, but that’s what matters. Fractions of a millimeter, the tiniest difference in a curve—those things are what keep me refining.

So you’re sending out picks, getting feedback, then finalizing specs?

Exactly. The bevel alone alone can change everything—the way the string releases, the tone, the feel. When I started, I just beveled an edge and left it at that. Now, after working with so many artists, I know how much nuance is possible. If a player wants a string to release a certain way or have a very specific sound, the bevel can make or break it.

What is your process when designing a signature pick?

It’s about getting every detail right—thickness, bevel, shape, and material. With Wyatt Rice, I probably sent him 50 picks before we nailed it. But I never got frustrated, even at pick number 49. Each one taught me something. Sometimes we even bring in a professional calligrapher to etch names or designs if the project calls for it.

Have any collaborations surprised you?

Yes. Lately more jazz players, especially in New York, have reached out. Brandon Ross, whose music I love, sent me a pick whose dimensions go back to the late ’70s and early ’80s, based on the old stone Min’d picks. Herco even made a nylon version called the Axe Handler. Brandon had a bunch of them in the mid-’80s, and over the years they all got worn or lost—except for one. He doesn’t perform with it, but he’s held onto it as a reference for designers. The fact that I get to copy something that’s been central to his sound world for so long—that’s both intimidating and exciting.

Your picks are known for unique materials. What do you use, and why?

Casein is central. Before World War II, there were two major manufacturers in Europe—one in Germany, one in France. The German company and its materials didn’t survive the war. The French one closed years ago, but some people held onto the old stock. I tracked it down and bought as much as I could. I love the history of that. 

Jokko [Santing, a fellow boutique pick maker in the Netherlands] also did research and found materials that sound great, and I’ve used those too. In the beginning I literally walked into plastics distributors and said, “I make guitar picks—can I have a cutoff of everything you’ve got?” They thought it was fun and gave me scraps. I’d go home with 25 types of plastic, make a pick out of each, play them, and if one had potential, I’d send it to a friend. That’s how I built my palette.

Do you have a personal favorite material?

Honestly, usually whatever I have the least of. Scarcity makes it feel special. I’ve got a tiny piece of bright yellow material I haven’t touched yet. It’s just too rare. One day I’ll make a pick out of it, but for now I just keep it as is.

There are several boutique pick makers today—what sets Apollo Picks apart?

I’ll make custom picks for anyone—pros or people who just play at church on Sundays. If someone emails me saying, “Hey, the bevel’s a little steep, could you try this?” I’ll happily do it. Another thing is I love photography. I shoot my picks every day and post them. And honestly, I don’t pay much attention to what other makers are doing. I just do my thing, and maybe that’s what sets me apart.

How much of your process is precision machining versus hand-finishing?

It’s a mix, but the handmade aspect is huge. Beveling is all files, magnifying glasses, and bright light—very much about feel. Machines can give you the same bevel every time, but by hand I can vary it depending on the player’s needs. Even getting the pick to the right thickness is a hand process. I literally loop tape around my fingers and rub the pick against sandpaper, measuring it maybe 30 times along the way. Every corner gets checked. It’s not purely old-school—I use electricity—but I still pride myself on the handmade element. I don’t know what other makers do, but I really believe I offer something more human.

Do you see your picks as tools, craft, or both?

Both. They’re functional, of course, but I also think they’re beautiful objects. Guitars aren’t just functional either—they can be inspiring just to look at. Sometimes a pick is like that, too. If it looks cool and feels cool, that’s reason enough. The fact that it also sounds great is the bonus.

What does your typical output look like?

It’s hard to measure, since I’m often working on projects that won’t be finished for months. As a one-man shop, I might spend a whole day doing one process on a hundred picks without finishing any. Another day, I’ll complete a batch all at once. The workflow isn’t linear, but it’s steady.

Which of your own picks do you reach for when you play?

Shape H. I like how each corner has a different personality. One gives you a brighter sound, another is rounder and fuller. It’s like having options built into one pick.

What’s the most rewarding part of this craft?

Both connecting with musicians I admire and the making itself. Meeting heroes is great, though you quickly realize they’re just people. Still, it’s surreal knowing Bill Frisell or Norman Blake is using something you made. And then there’s the sheer joy of sitting down with files and sandpaper and making picks—I just love it.

This article originally appeared in the January/February 2026 issue of Acoustic Guitar magazine.